The Garden of Stones

chapter THIRTEEN





“True friendship is a wonder rarely matched in nature for its beauty, or its rarity. Born of love, admiration, and affection, it is the place where wrongs are forgiven and we see with the heart, not the eyes. I know that in the hearts of my friends, my lapses might ultimately be forgiven. It brings me comfort that, perhaps, I am a person worth loving.”—Imradhan, master dramatist and painter to the Ivory Court of Tanis, 12th Somundarthan Dynasty (356th Year of the Shrīanese Federation)


Day 319 of the 495th Year of the Shrīanese Federation


Indris walked into the cool of the evening. Samyala and its grounds were dotted by the will-o’-the-wisp glow of ilhen lamps hung from trees and bushes.

He took a seat among the apple blossoms, where the dim apparitions of orange-and-yellow carp idled in a large pond. Shar had decided to remain inside, where she assumed the role of troubadour for the evening. Indris could hear the jangling tones of her sonesette, as well as the breathiness of her voice raised in song. Ekko was with her. Indris doubted the ladies of Samyala had the chance to meet a Tau-se very often. As such Ekko had become something of a fascination to them. Hayden and Omen had left to scout out Indris’s residence and see whether it was being watched. They would find the opportunity to secretly enter, gather what was necessary for their journey, then return. Tonight would be a night of peace and—

“Am I disturbing you?” Mari’s voice thrilled him. He masked what he suspected might be an idiot grin before he turned to gesture to the seat beside him. She nodded in thanks as she seated herself.

“I’d heard you’d been brought here,” he said. “How do feel, Pah-Mariamejeh?”

“I’d prefer you called me Mari,” she offered with a lazy smile. “I feel the worse for wear, though better than I should given the circumstances. The Scholar Marshal is a gifted healer.”

“We both owe her a debt of gratitude. As for names? You’re right. I think we’re past formality, neh?”

Mari threw her head back and laughed. It was a low, throaty sound, rough edged and raw. She crossed very long, athletic legs. Looked at him from beneath her shaggy blonde fringe. “I knew you were trouble when I first set eyes on you. If I’d known how much, I’d have found you earlier.”

“If you’d known I was a Näsarat, would it have made a difference? I imagine your father would hardly approve.”

“Ha! If I thought you were half Seethe, it wouldn’t keep me away. Why would I care what Great House, family, or worker’s cottage you were born in? Would it have mattered to you if you knew I was an Erebus?”

Indris shrugged. “It doesn’t now, why would it then?”

“That’s the correct answer. You’re indeed as wise as they say.”

“Oh, that’s what they say, is it?”

She leaned against him. It was little more than the playful brush of her arm against his. There came the faint cucumberlike scent of comfrey oil rubbed into her skin. The heady smell of the jojoba in her hair. Gone almost as quickly as it came, it brought back the memory of shared passion. “They say a lot of other things, too. Good and bad.”

“Aah.” Indris rocked back on the chair to give himself some distance. His desire for her unsettled him. “There’s always the bad, isn’t there? I suppose that’s why you’re famous and I’m infamous?”

Mari snorted with good-natured derision. “I’m a daughter of the Great House of Erebus and you talk to me about infamy?”

“You’ve a reputation—”

“I can imagine.” Her tone was bitter. She looked away, eyes unfocused across the shimmering breadth of lantern-hazed Amnon.

“The definitions of ourselves aren’t always so clear-cut. Neither are our decisions.”

“Sometimes. It was my choice to work hard so I could succeed as a warrior-poet, rather than continue my education with the House of Pearl. I never wanted to become a trophy bride for my House’s advantage.” Laughter trilled across the night. Mari looked wistfully at the warmly glowing windows set in Samyala’s white marble walls. “Sometimes one wonders…”

“Doubts?”

“Almost never. You?”

Indris laughed. “My mother was Sēq, as well as being good friends with Femensetri and Far-ad-din. I was born in Mediin, in Pashrea, but raised in Amnon until I was five. I was sent to the Sēq Chapterhouse at Amarqa before my mother…was murdered. I even spent two years at the Nilvedic Libraries at Eshmir. And another two at the Zienni Monastery in High Arden. I’ve spent most of my life in public service. There wasn’t a great deal of choice in it.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t regret it.” He shrugged. “Much of the time. I’m daimahjin now, so the days of putting myself in danger at other people’s convenience are over. I’ve only myself to blame if I get killed now.”

Mari laughed, then sobered quickly. “You can lay some blame at my father’s feet this time. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Yes.” He drew out the word speculatively. “I’ve been shot, stabbed, or otherwise wounded more times than I care to count. I’ve yet to feel lucky about it.”

“Well, I’m sorry.”

Corajidin had shot him with salt-forged steel. The black-rock salt caused what the Stone Witches, the earliest coven, called the Entropic Scar. Entropic Scars acted like boulders in a stream. They literally scarred the energies in a person’s body and had the potential to be life threatening. For the Ilhennim—the Illuminated, or mystics—the effects could be devastating. Yet somehow Indris had managed to survive, though for the life of him could not remember how or why.

Ever since Indris had returned from the Spines with Changeling, he had been physically and mentally stronger than at any point in his life. He healed more rapidly. Thought more rapidly. Then there was his left eye, his jhi—the stigma of power—something rarely seen in mystics since the early days of the Awakened Empire. His eye looked normal most of the time, but when he channeled floods of disentropy, or was threatened, something woke inside him. A strength that had not been there before he went to the Spines. Something happened to him in the three years he was with the Dragons, though he remembered almost none of it. He knew he had arrived, had spoken with the Dragon Sage Mnesseranssuen, and had been asked to fulfill a quest on their behalf. What the quest was, or what else happened to him at the Spines, was lost. No matter what he had tried, the memories of his time with the Dragons were locked away so deep he could not find them.

“So your father tried to kill me,” he mused. Indris shook his head then grinned at her. “Should I feel special?”

She shook her head with a rueful chuckle.

Ziaire had told Indris what Mari had gone through at the hands of the Feyassin. Indris had been moved by her attempt at contrition, though it would never undo her betrayal. It was always such with the Great Houses, treachery and centuries of bloodshed and none of it forgotten, since an Awakened rahn dwelled with the memories of those who had come before. Vashne, like any politician or member of the upper castes, lived a life of compromise, of easily explained pragmatism. Vashne had understood the risks he took when he assumed high office. He had to have known his decisions, his opinions, even the deeds of his Ancestors, might come home to roost one day. Even so, Vashne had been more principled, more of a visionary, than most of his peers. Everybody had flaws. Despite his, Vashne had been a well-loved and respected Asrahn. Ariskander had been his probable successor. Ariskander, too, was a good man, as such things went. Indris felt his uncle’s loss keenly, though part of him had become inured to death in all his years of service. It was almost as if he expected everybody he knew to die before their time.

“You knew Vashne well?” Mari asked.

“As well as he could be known.” Indris shrugged. “Which is to say I knew of him what he wanted to share. Maybe a little more.”

“I could have stopped it, you know.” Her voice cracked. “He was a good Asrahn and deserved better than what I gave. I should’ve died with the other Feyassin, as was my sworn duty.”

“Why didn’t you?” he asked, voice gentle to take the sting of the question away. “And why the change of heart?”

“I’ve lived with secrets and lies and plots for most of my life,” Mari confessed. “I know the price of betrayal. When Ziaire and the others offered me their hand…I wondered whether I could talk to them about what I knew. Betrayal on top of betrayal, wondering whether there was an end to it. But I owed Vashne and his family the truth. More, if I’m able. I allowed him to be killed! I could have, should have—”

“Would have? To what end, once his downfall was already written? The same can be said of Ariskander. Your role isn’t over yet. Mari, your death would’ve achieved little. By staying alive you’ve helped those who want to see justice served.” Indris took both her hands in his. They were warm. The skin was calloused over ridges of hard muscle. The hands of a killer. Yet her eyes under her messy blonde hair were troubled as the sea during a storm. He smiled at her reassuringly. “Obligation and guilt are something I’m well acquainted with. Probably more so than is healthy. An Asrahn should put the interests of their people before all. Would Corajidin do that? No offense, but I doubt it.”

“How can I help?” Mari averted her eyes. She rubbed Indris’s palm with strong fingers. He did not want her to stop.

“I need to find Ariskander and Far-ad-din and bring them back. The members of the Teshri will rally around Ariskander once they see an alternative to your father. To do that I need to know for certain where Ariskander is being held.” He lifted her chin to look into her eyes. They were an amazing blue-green, made brighter by the darkness around them. His gaze flicked down to her full lips. They were the pink of coral. “I need you to find out where your father is keeping him.”

“You want me to spy on my father?”

“With respect, didn’t you spy on Vashne for your father? You can help save good men’s lives.”

Mari pursed her lips, her gaze distant. Indris turned away, though he watched her from the corner of his eye for the long moments she was in thought. Her confession had proven her willingness to rein in her father’s ambitions, though he doubted she would permit any harm to come to him. He found himself surprisingly relieved when her expression lightened, a decision made. She looked at him with a wry smile. He waited a handful of heartbeats before he turned back to face her.

“Can we depend on you?” he asked.

“I’ll do what I can.” Her face drifted closer to his. He could smell the mint on her breath. Her hair, blown by the wind, tickled his cheeks. He leaned back. Memories of another woman’s face drifted over Mari’s. Recollections of a different scent, a different touch, a different way in which…

The kiss was on the verge of tenderness, with the promise of abandon to come. They parted, to look into each other’s eyes, mouths open in mirrored smiles. She must have sensed his hovering indecision. She rested her fingertips against his lips. “We don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he told himself as much as her. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, there was only Mari. “I want to. I’m glad you’ll help us.”

“But not right now.” She leaned close again, glanced down at his lips.

“No. Not right now…”





“Where did you get your tattoos?” Mari lay beside him on the grass. Her fingers traced the intricate designs and patterns of raised flesh on his arms and shoulders. She kissed one brand of five bands of five wavy lines radiating from a central pentagon. “What’s this one?”

“That’s the mark of an adept of the Dragon scholars.”

She pulled back to stare him in the eye. An incredulous smile painted her lips. “You’re teasing me!”

“Not at the moment—”

She kissed him before he could finish. “And this one?”

The tattoo of the nomadic horse tribes of Darmatia. Another was the ritual scarification of the warrior-tribes of Jiom. Another from the Burdha, the tribes of the jungle-covered mountains in Tanis.

“That one is from the Feyhe,” Indris said as she pointed to the eight-limbed spiral on the inside of his left wrist.

“It looks kind of like a feathered octopus…or a whirlpool. Are they really shape-shifters?”

“The Sea Masters? Yes, they are.” They lay in silence in each other’s arms, the sounds of Samyala a gentle lullaby. There were four great civilizations of the Elemental Masters, known to the various orders of the scholars as the Eridoi. The Seethe—the Wind Masters—was the only Elder Race that still involved itself actively in the modern world. For the most part they remained in their drifting Sky Realms, but their family troupes wandered the world as soldiers, artists, teachers, and entertainers. Most of the Dragons, called the Fire Masters, slumbered in their Great Dreaming. Though the majority of them slept, Indris knew, though he did not remember how, that the ones who remained awake were more than enough to rouse their kindred if the Spines were attacked. The Earth Masters, the Herū, had disappeared into the deep forests and high mountains, though they would talk with travelers if necessary or the whim was on them. The most enigmatic of all were the Sea Masters. The Feyhe could take any shape they could imagine, which made them difficult to identify unless they revealed themselves for what they were. Their cities were places of liquid light over coral and rough stone. The lullabies of whales rolled in the waters there, as did the banter of dolphins and the symphonies of the sirens who called to sailors to bring news of the world above. There had been a Sea Master at Amarqa, a powerful Sēq Master named Karoyi. It was an assumed name, since no non-Feyhe could pronounce words in their complex, musical language. Indris had always planned on taking Karoyi up on his offer to visit the Sea Masters and continue his education, but he never had.

Indris looked out over the speckled lantern light of Amnon. The city looked deceptively peaceful. Quiet. Thousands of pinpoints of light came together to form a gentle haze under the bright nebula of the Ancestor’s Shroud above. It was if the world in which he sat lay suspended between clouds of colored light, which looked soft as woolen blankets and seemed almost close enough to touch.

“Come back.” Mari nuzzled his neck.

“Hmm?” Indris kissed her hair, held her close.

“You left me there for a while. I was getting lonely.”

“Sorry.” He leaned into her. “Mari, you don’t have to help us if you don’t want to.”

“I do,” she said firmly. “It’ll be hard to get what you need from my father, but it has to be done. I believe Armal, Thufan’s son, may be willing to help me.”

Indris snorted. “I watched him oversee the raids on the houses of Far-ad-din’s supporters. He seems pretty much your father’s creature. Why do you think he’d work with us?”

“He does what he’s ordered to do, though I’ve my doubts it sits well on his conscience. Will your cousin Roshana accept my help?”

The enmity of the Näsarats and the Erebus had been millennia in the making. While Indris cared little for petty, half-remembered squabbles that should have been let lie, Roshana was of another mind. He was not certain how grateful his cousin would be to know Mari was going to help them not only hinder her father’s schemes, but find Ariskander. She would also have to be told of Nehrun’s complicity, something Indris did not relish.

Mari had admitted there was little that would tempt her father more than her contrition. Corajidin, it seemed, had always wanted a doting daughter. Should she return to his good graces, her tail between her legs, she suspected his love would overcome his suspicion.

Indris dressed, then walked with Mari back to the main building of Samyala. He kissed Mari farewell, then watched her until she disappeared into her room. He smiled to himself when she did not look back. It was a matter of a few minutes before he was back in his own room. He shook his head at his own enthusiasm when he realized he had been humming to himself.

Shar and Ekko were inside. The Seethe war-chanter looked up, then smiled. She pointed wordlessly at Indris’s hair and robe. He checked himself in the mirror to find he had donned his robe inside out. Grass and the crushed petal of an apple blossom were caught in the snarl of his hair. He grinned. Mari had no doubt known, yet decided not to tell him.

“We will search for Ariskander now?” Ekko’s tone was urgent. “I fear for—”

“We need to know where he is first,” Indris said as he searched through his satchel for the materials he would need.

“Then how do you plan on doing that?”

“Mari’s going to help us.”

“Mari?” Shar asked with raised eyebrows. Indris copied her expression, which brought a troubled smile to Shar’s face.

“I need to send a message to Roshana. We need to talk, and soon.”

Indris sat on the bed and used the ahmsah to focus on the ebb and flow of his Disentropic Stain. The telltale corona of black light flickered around him, threaded through with rainbow hues. It flowed like a hazy stream across his skin. Every now and then, as it reached one of his energy foci, it would flare into a dark nova. The Disentropic Stain in most beings was like a gentle heat haze, seen wavering on the grasses in high summer. Almost invisible, it caused only the faintest of ripples across the world around it. For a scholar, however, the Disentropic Stain was more like a brush fire or the corona around an eclipse of the sun. It flared, flickered, even rumbled if an adept attuned to the use of disentropy knew to listen.

He inspected the patterns of his Stain, confident it was almost back to normal. The flow was hampered somewhat by the spinning vortices where the salt-forged steel had left Entropic Scars, but they would heal soon enough.

He drew out a sheet of blue paper from his satchel and carefully folded the paper along well-remembered lines until it had become a small paper bird. Indris calculated the formulae for the Second Simulacrum Charm. Numbers ordered themselves in his head. Cause and effect, energy and time, distance and entropy. He held the bird to his lips, to whisper Roshana’s name and the time and the place he wanted to meet her. For a few moments, the paper remained still, then it took on a firefly glow. The wings flapped hesitantly, like a newly hatched butterfly’s. Within heartbeats the wings flapped more rapidly. Before his eyes it transformed into a tiny blue phoenix, which flapped once around the room before it departed by the open balcony door.

All Indris need do was be in the right place at the right time to see whether Roshana answered the call.





It was the Hour of the Crow, four hours into the new morning, when Indris, Shar, and Ekko disembarked from a modest carriage outside a tavern in the Barouq. There was still considerable traffic. A sense of anonymity among the throng. Nahdi roamed the streets, sometimes singularly, sometimes in groups. Avān, Seethe, Human, and Tau-se moved in small dangerous flocks from teahouse to wine house to guesthouse. Where Indris and the others saw green-coated kherife, or the red and black of the Erebus soldiery, they took a calm, circuitous route around them. He had learned in his early years as an agent for the Sēq never to panic. People remembered what was out of the ordinary. Often, even a vigilant person could miss what was right in front of them.

A Silver None the Wiser was a well-known tavern for veteran nahdi. There was little noise coming from the place. As they entered Indris saw a score or more patrons sitting around tables, their faces planes of black and yellow in the lantern light. Indris pulled back the hood of his over-robe. The patrons raised curious eyes in his direction. There was a slight lull in conversation as a few of the battle-hardened champions recognized Indris for who he was. Mugs and glasses were raised in his direction. A few bowed their heads. Indris returned their gestures politely.

Ekko rested one large hand on the hilt of his khopesh. He had adopted the dress of a Tau-se jombe, a warrior who had left his pride to adventure alone. A long scarf, embroidered with his deeds of heroism, was wound about his head and lower face. His Lion Guard armor had been swapped for a more utilitarian jerkin, kilt, and sandals. A short, powerful bone bow was in a case across his back, along with a quiver of thumb-thick arrows.

Shar grinned as she placed a warning hand on Ekko’s arm. Her teeth flashed white against her blue lips. “Best keep your blade sheathed, my large friend.”

“Are they so dangerous, these nahdi?”

“And then some!” Indris said brightly.

He gestured for the others to follow as he made his way to a table. Indris caught the barman’s eye and ordered cinnamon tea with honey and lemon, along with some nougat and caramels for himself and his friends. Conversations drifted around them. A group of Seethe mercenaries—tall and elegant with their quills brightly hued, and gemlike eyes bright with reflected light—discussed the rumor the kherife were impounding ships, horses, and wagons. A smaller group of rough-looking Human soldiers from Atrea, in their polished cuirasses with their round shields propped against their chairs and spears canted against the tables, muttered darkly at their misfortune to be stranded in an Avān nation. They sat tall in their voluminous black war-cloaks, advertising rather than hiding who and what they were. In the far corner at a long table, a squad of paladins from Ygran sat in their high-collared doublets, stiff with embroidery and braiding. They sipped dark wine from sturdy tumblers, ignoring the bowl of water any civilized Shrīanese would use to water the alcohol down. They talked little, seemingly at peace with their lot.

The door of the tavern opened to admit a handful of burly warriors, each with the rolling gait of cavalry. They wore no insignia, though the way they moved could not hide their familiarity with each other. The soldiers did not pause; rather, they went directly to the bar. One of their number, slighter than the others, turned to approach the table where Indris and his friends sat.

“Couldn’t this wait till morning?” Rosha grumbled as she took her seat. “Do you know what it’s like to be awakened by a paper bird flapping around your face?” She mimed the bird bumping into her forehead, perching in her hair.

“It is morning,” Indris replied with equanimity. “We’re going to find your father.”

“Going to what, you say?” Rosha thanked one of her guards as he brought her a cup of coffee. “Nehrun, myself, my Whitehorse, the Lion Guard…we’ve all been looking for days.”

“Rosha, I’ve good reason to believe I can find out where Ariskander is being held. Finding Far-ad-din won’t be a problem, but bringing him back may be tricky. Once I know for a certainty where Ariskander is, my friends and I’ll go and bring both of them back. Nothing simpler.”

“Nothing simpler?” Shar queried drily.

Indris smiled and shrugged.

“How?” Rosha asked, her tone more the princess of a Great House than the daughter of a missing father.

“A friend who has good reasons to help.” Indris avoided the question. He paused for a moment, fingers tracing the constellation of crescent-moon moisture stains and boreholes on the table’s surface. How to tell Rosha what he knew about Nehrun? Harder still to tell her how he had come by the information that might well ruin her oldest brother.

“Indris, if Nehrun and I couldn’t find our father with all the warriors at our disposal, how will this friend of yours help?”

“I trust Indris in this, Pah-Roshana.” Ekko’s voice resonated. “I will be accompanying the search to find Rahn-Ariskander.”

“Believe me when I say this friend of mine is also a friend of yours.” Indris leaned forward in his chair. “You also need to know Nehrun’s motivations are somewhat less than pure.”

“You’re making me nervous, Indris.” Rosha laughed hesitantly. “You’re not asking me to trust an Erebus, are you?”

Indris looked down at the table as he sipped his drink.